Page 51 of Five Stolen Rings
“Mm-hmm,” Soph says, an amused sound that filters hazily in. “You drank that eggnog too fast, hon. Let’s find someone to take you home, okay?”
“Mmm,” I say, letting my head drop onto her shoulder. I’m tired, and my thoughts keep dancing just out of reach. “Mm-hmm.”
I let my eyes drift closed.
JACK
I wake from a rest so deep that it takes a second to reorient myself.
This kiss last night, I remember.And I called Dr. Barb this morning. Then I laid down on the couch and apparently fell into another dimension of sleep. And now?—
My phone is ringing. That’s what’s woken me up, I realize. I slap around for it on the couch, answering as soon as I’ve found it.
“Hello?” I say, my voice groggy.
“Jack?”
The woman’s voice wakes me up quickly, because it’s one I don’t recognize. I struggle into sitting position—something that happens when you get older—and rub my hand down my face.
“Yes,” I say. “This is he. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Jack, hi!” the voice says, more chipper now. “This is Sophronia Willstead.”
My body slumps against the back of the couch as I blink my eyes open. “Sophronia, hi,” I say.
“So look,” she says without preamble. “Stella is here with us, and she’s pretty drunk. Can you come pick her up?”
Oh, no. I straighten immediately as my bleary mind tries to make sense of what I’m hearing.
“She’s—what?”
“A few of us had brunch this morning,” Sophronia says patiently. “And Stella left her clutch at the party last night, so I invited her to come pick it up and have some brunch with us.”
I nod slowly, my memory pulling into view the little red bag Stella brought last night. I didn’t realize at the time, but Sophronia is right; Stella didn’t have it when we left. “Okay,” I say. “But how is she drunk?” She’s in recovery; did she slip up? I glance at the clock—twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Not promising.
“Ah,” Sophronia says, her voice a nervous little titter now. “Well. So. It’s kind of embarrassing to say this to adoctor,” she goes on, “but we brought some eggnog with us.And Bridget started asking Stella about her old job, and Stella started gulping down some of the eggnog, and I don’t think she realized it had alcohol until she’d already drunk quite a bit. So…”
Bridget. Is that the girl from last night who gave off mean-girl vibes? I don’t remember her from Windsor, but I didn’t like her.
“So just to clarify—did she mean to get drunk, or didn’t she?” I say, pushing myself off the couch and hurrying to the front door where I keep my shoes lined up.
“I don’t think she did.”
I don’t know why I asked, because I’m not sure it matters; intentional or not, she’s drunk now. “Okay. Where are you?” I slip my tennis shoes on before looking down at my clothes; they’re decent enough to go ferry an inebriated woman home.
“We’re at Petit Déjeuner,” she says. “It’s?—”
“I know where it is,” I cut her off. “I’ll be there in fifteen or twenty. Just—don’t let her drink anymore.”
“We won’t,” Sophronia says, her voice cheerful. Then, in an undertone, she adds, “And we’re not letting her talk to Bridget anymore, either, so don’t worry.”
My breath whooshes out of me as some of the tension in my shoulders eases. “That’s good. Thanks.”
Petit Déjeuner is a little French café about halfway between Lucky and Boulder. It’s small but pretentious, with overpriced quiche and tiny portion sizes. Pumpernickel is better, the little café here in town that serves giant slices of pie at all hours of the day.
I could go for some pie, actually. Those peppers I had earlier weren’t enough to fill me up.
I hurry out the door, and I make it to PetitDéjeuner faster than any police officer would approve of. But I can’t help it; as decent as Sophronia and Lucretia really do seem, I still don’t quite trust them with a vulnerable Stella.
